Chapter 29
Artyom
The abandoned shipyard rose out of the dark like the carcass of some beast that had been rotting there for years.
The gantry crane leaned at a sick angle, rust catching moonlight in a dull, blood-red sheen.
Snapped cables dangled from above, their ends tapping the corroded steel as the wind nudged them, a thin, lazy clink of metal on metal.
Wind poured in off the water, salty and foul, layered with motor oil, iron, and something wet and rotten. The cold stuck to my skin like a skim of ice.
Under my boots, gravel and broken concrete crunched soft and tight.
I hadn't brought anyone. At least, it looked that way.
I left the car about three hundred meters from the main gate and killed the engine. Once the heat bled out, the place went quiet—nothing but wind sliding through steel.
I stepped out. The night air shoved down my collar, sharp as hell. I closed the door gentle. No extra noise.
I walked toward the rusted iron gate.
The light at the entrance burned bright—one high-powered emergency lamp hung over the frame. In that hard glare I saw cigarette butts and broken glass scattered across the ground.
The gate stood open, like it had been waiting.
As I came up, a shadow flickered inside.
I didn't slow down. My soles grated over the gravel.
One step. Two. On the third, a voice cut out of the darkness by the frame.
"Stop."
A man in a dark jacket stepped into the light. His hands were empty, but the bulge at his waist told the truth.
"Hands up."
I raised my hands.
He moved in, patted my sides, my back, down my legs—fast, practiced. Then he took a step back. "Go on. Mr. Hall is waiting."
Inside the gate, a narrow corridor ran like a throat. The walls were chewed up by damp and time, paint flaking in ugly patches. Half the overhead tubes were dead. The ones still working buzzed low, throwing a warm, dirty yellow that hit the floor like old blood.
At the far end, it opened wide into an old workshop.
Concrete floor, a few low spots holding cloudy puddles that caught the light.
The steel trusses above were rusted through in places; you could see the sky where it had split.
Moonlight leaked in thin slashes and dropped pale stripes on the ground.
A table sat in the center—an old long worktable. A yellowed blueprint lay spread across it. One leg had given out; somebody had shoved bricks under it to keep it standing.
A man stood behind it in a dark gray suit. Hair combed neat. In the dim emergency light, it looked slick, almost oily. A cigar rested between his fingers, unlit.
Andrei Hall.
Behind him stood seven or eight men in dark coats, hands hanging loose at their sides. Loose like they could tighten in a heartbeat.
My eyes swept past them and landed in the shadow behind Andrei—
Ethan stood there. Half his face caught the light. The other half disappeared into black.
He saw me. No expression. Just the smallest nod.
So quick nobody else would've clocked it.
But I did.
"Artyom." Andrei's voice sounded like sandpaper on old metal. "You actually came."
"You knew I would."
"I knew you would." He repeated it like he liked the taste. "You're always on time."
"Where is she?"
"Easy." He shifted the cigar from left hand to right, then back again. "We talk first."
"I don't have shit to talk about with you."
Andrei chuckled once. "Then what are you here for? To kill me? By yourself?" He lifted his chin toward his men. "You count how many I have?"
I had been counting since the second I stepped on the property. Two at the front. Two in the corridor. Eight in the shop. High ground—at least two. I counted. I just didn't give him the number.
"You make a move, you and your woman and kid don't walk out alive," he said. "You don't move, we can talk terms."
Wind moaned through the split roof, deep and steady, like some huge thing breathing overhead.
I stared at him. "What do you want?"
His smile came slow, satisfied—like a hunter watching prey finally trip the wire.
"The port project. The transport lines your Sokolov family controls. And thirty percent silent equity in those docks you run in Brooklyn." He paused, like he was checking himself for mistakes. "In exchange for her life."
He went on, casual as a knife. "And I hear she carries your kid. So I figure my ask isn't exactly outrageous."
Andrei took his time blowing out smoke—gray-white curling under the weak light, blurring the wrinkles on his face without hiding the sharpness behind them. "Don't look at me like that, Artyom. Business is business. Family is a luxury. And you, right now? You can't afford it."
He leaned back in his chair. "I give you five minutes. Five. After that, if you still haven't signed, I have my people bring Willow in here. Then you get to watch, up close, whether your pen moves faster—or my men's triggers do."
I held his gaze. "Where is she?"
He smiled again, deepening the lines around his mouth. "Locked in a warehouse. Guarded. Safe—as long as I say so."
I looked into his eyes. Then I glanced into that patch of shadow behind him.
Ethan had already been moving.
"If I agree," I said, slow, "you guarantee she walks out breathing?"
"Of course." Andrei's grin widened. "I keep my word. You write the transfer, you sign, I release her. And you get to take her home and play devoted daddy through the pregnancy."
He paused. "You know I am not a charity. Getting this offer at all? That is me honoring your dead father."
My father. Honor. What a joke.
I stepped forward, hands still down at my sides.
The men behind Andrei didn't move. He gave them a look—don't.
"I can sign," I said. "But I want one thing. I see her first."
His head tilted, measuring. "And if I don't?"
"Then you shoot me right now," I said. "But you never get your port project. You know what my people do. You kill me, they burn your world down worse."
He stared at me for a few seconds. Then he laughed, low. "You really are your father's son."
He turned his head and signaled someone behind him. "Bring his woman."
The man slipped toward the back corridor.
Willow. That way.
My heartbeat kicked up half a notch. My palm pressed my thigh, feeling the shape of the grip under the fabric. He'd searched me. He hadn't found the one I'd hidden.
I stayed still, eyes cutting to Ethan.
He stood in the shadows behind Andrei—moving too.
Then everything went to hell.
The man closest to Andrei just dropped. No sound. No warning. His knees hit first, then he tipped over onto his side. A tiny red dot sat on his forehead like a cruel joke.
"Who?" Andrei snapped his head around, voice cracking sharp. "Who the fuck fired?"
He didn't get an answer. He got more shots—tight, controlled, too clean. Not one hit Andrei. Every single one erased another man at his side.
"Someone's outside!" a voice yelled, panic riding it.
The line of men shattered. Some dove behind the table. Some yanked weapons. But the gunfire stayed steady, like a machine that had been dialed in. They couldn't find the shooter. Couldn't tell how many were out there.
And then Ethan moved.
Fast. His hand came from inside his coat and the muzzle was already jammed into his father's side.
Andrei glanced down at the gun, then up at his son.
His face didn't change. His mouth twitched like he was about to speak, but Ethan beat him to it.
"Tell them to put their guns down."
Andrei didn't budge. He angled his head, looking at Ethan with something colder than anger, colder than disappointment—like he was watching a thing he thought he'd broken suddenly bare its teeth.
"You are with Sokolov?" he asked.
Ethan let out a short laugh. "Of course not. Doesn't mean we can't work together."
He looked around the room. "I am saying it again. Drop the guns."
The workshop went still for a beat. The shooting outside had stopped.
Five bodies lay on the floor. The rest stood scattered, guns raised, but nobody pulled the trigger. They looked at Ethan, then at Andrei, waiting for a signal like dogs.
"You pick," Ethan said. "You listen to him, you fire, and you all die. Or you put them down, and you walk out of here. I don't come after you."
He paused, voice quiet but it carried. "I am the next boss. I mean what I say."
Three seconds of silence. The air felt heavy, like it had weight.
Then the first man set his gun on the floor. Metal cracked against concrete.
Second. Third.
Andrei stood there while his people dropped their weapons one by one. None of them looked at him.
Ethan didn't lower his gun. He watched the men who complied and jerked his chin. "Out. Somebody outside will escort you."
They filed out.
Their footsteps faded down the corridor, swallowed by the wind.
"You betrayed me?" Andrei sounded like he'd aged ten years in one breath.
"You never gave me a choice," Ethan said. He pulled the gun back, but he didn't holster it. "You found me and told me I was your only son. You said you were leaving everything to me. But you never once asked if I wanted it."
Andrei stared at him. In the end, he didn't say a word.
Ethan turned to me. "The warehouse is behind the workshop. Left turn. Third door. How long do you have?"
"Three minutes."
"Then go," Ethan said. "I'll handle this."
One man hadn't left.
He stood in the corner near the stairs. When everybody else dropped their guns, he didn't. He still had it clenched hard, knuckles white.
He watched Ethan's back, then flicked his gaze to me, then back again.
His muzzle lifted—didn't come all the way up, but it was enough.
I stepped forward.
Glass exploded.
The shot from outside punched straight into his forehead. He fell backward, the back of his skull smacking the concrete with a dull, wet thud.
Ethan glanced sideways. "Move. Now."
Night wind poured through the new hole in the window as I headed for the back of the workshop.